Unravelling

by Lindsay Stanberry-Flynn

  The river alongside her cottage is dark and fast flowing on its way to the sea. The sound is familiar and comforting, the first she hears when she wakes, the last before she falls asleep. As soon as she gets home, she takes a lasagne from the fridge and puts it in the oven; she clears the dishwasher and makes up her bed with crisp cotton sheets, every action helping to throw off London. She resists checking emails or phone messages, wanting only to absorb the feeling of being at one with herself that this place gives her. When she moved to Lyme Regis more than twenty years ago, the three-storey cottage was almost derelict. There had been a flood and a lot of work was needed to put the damage right, but she could see straight away that it would make just the sort of home she wanted. Somewhere to rebuild her life. And she has. She’s been happy and successful. Her work, her children, her friends, they’re all she’s needed. What pain is Charles talking about? She rushes to the mirror in the hallway. What can he see that she can’t? If there’s anything, it’s Gerald’s fault. If he hadn’t materialised again after all these years, if he wasn’t ill, if … oh, what’s the point? If is a little word that stands in the way … No matter how much she might want to pretend otherwise, he has come back, he is ill.

  She picks up the phone and dials Esme’s mobile.

  ‘Hi, Vanessa. How are you?’ Her daughter’s voice sounds light and carefree. She’s living with Jake and has got herself a job in a boutique.

  ‘Fine … well … not actually.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘I’ve been to see Gerald.’

  ‘Jake and I wondered how long you’d hold out.’

  Vanessa bites her lip. She’ll have to ignore the gibe. ‘He’ll probably be out of hospital soon.’

  ‘That’s good.’ Esme sounds detached as if they are talking about a casual acquaintance.

  ‘The thing is … ’ How should she say it? ‘… he wants to see you and Cordelia.’

  ‘You said before.’

  ‘Do you think you might visit him?’

  ‘God, Vanessa, I mean, I don’t want anything to happen to him, but seeing him again after all these years … ’

  ‘I know, but it’s hard for me. He asked me to ask you.’

  ‘I bet you haven’t said anything to Cordelia.’

  ‘Well … ’

  Esme laughs. ‘Thought you’d try me first, did you? If I didn’t explode – ’

  ‘Don’t be like that.’

  ‘You know Cordelia will go apeshit if you suggest visiting him.’

  ‘Will you ask her?’

  ‘Not likely. But if you can get her to agree, I’ll come too.’

  Without giving herself time to think, Vanessa goes to the computer. She can’t face a phone call. She clicks on to email.

  Darling – How are you all? I’ve been hoping to hear from you. I haven’t phoned. You seemed so cross last time. I know how angry you are with your father – and I don’t blame you – but he’s desperate to see you. He’s better and they’re hoping to discharge him soon, but he’s not going to be around forever. How will you feel if he dies without you seeing him? I’ve asked Esme and she’ll go if you will.

  Hope the painting’s going well. Love to Savvy and Patrick, and you, of course!

  Mum

  Vanessa’s finger hovers over send. Her eyes scan the message. Is it too strong? She doesn’t want to lumber Cordelia with the guilt she feels about her own father’s death. She sees Cordelia reading the email, showing it to Patrick. She can imagine what he will say: ‘Stay away from the bastard’, and Cordelia’s mouth will twist in that way she has when she’s hurt.

  Vanessa saves the message as a draft. She’ll sleep on it and decide what to do in the morning.

  Twelve

  Cordelia spends every spare moment painting. No excuses about being too tired after a morning at the shop, Savannah needing her, or wanting to spend time with Patrick. She’s continuing with portraits, working from photographs – she still hasn’t plucked up the courage to ask someone to sit for her. One of Esme stands drying in the dining room, and she’s almost finished Jake. She’s used oil pastels and crayon for him, so it won’t need drying time, and she’ll have three paintings ready for the exhibition. Anna’s planning a party for the opening night and has invited the local paper to cover it. ‘You should bring your family,’ she said. ‘Your mum would love to see what you’re doing.’ Cordelia imagines her mother’s eyes on her work. She can hear her voice: ‘Lovely, Cordelia. Very pretty.’ Pretty. Her word for when things didn’t match her exacting standards.

  Painting stops Cordelia fretting about Patrick. Since that night at the pub, he’s been different. It’s nothing definite, nothing she can identify, but in some way he’s withdrawn from her. She’s frightened to tackle him in case that moment she’s been expecting has come: ‘It’s over, Cordy.’ ‘I’m not ready for a relationship.’ ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’ All those clichés people come up with.

  She’s reworking Jake’s jaw line. When she looked at the portrait before she went to bed last night, she realised the shape was wrong. It was too rounded, too soft, whereas Jake’s is square, with that small cleft in the chin that she always wanted to kiss when he was little. She works the crayon into the pastel, remembering the day he was born. Andrew woke her up as it was getting light. ‘I’m taking Mummy to hospital. The baby’s coming.’ She gave Esme cornflakes for breakfast and they did jigsaw puzzles and colouring until they heard Andrew’s car pull up. He rushed in and he was crying and shouting and laughing all at the same time. ‘It’s a boy! You’ve got a baby brother! I’ve got a son!’ He hugged her and Esme tight and told them how much he loved them. Afterwards, she sat at the kitchen table and drew a picture of Andrew, Esme and her all waving and smiling at the new baby, and Andrew cried all over again. Cordelia watched him and wondered if her daddy had cried when she was born.

  She’s always late for things, but recently she’s managed to arrive early once or twice. It’s all part of the control Sue, the counsellor, says she needs to regain. For too long she’s let other people be responsible for her happiness.

  ‘What do you think of this?’ she asks when Sue calls her in for her appointment. She holds out a copy of her mother’s email.

  ‘Why don’t you read it to me?’ Sue says.

  Cordelia’s voice is strong, but then she hears it waver … he’s not going to be around forever. How will you feel if he dies without you seeing him? She gets to the end of the email and stuffs the sheet of paper in her bag. ‘How dare she lay that on me? And suddenly calling herself Mum. When I needed a mum, she insisted we call her Vanessa. Didn’t want to be called a job title, she said.’ Cordelia screws up the tissue in her hands.

  ‘What do you find most upsetting about the email, Cordelia?’

  ‘Everything.’ Cordelia glares at Sue. ‘It’s as if I’m a little girl and I can’t be expected to understand the consequences of my decisions.’

  ‘What have you done about it?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘You haven’t replied?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  Black dots begin to dance before Cordelia’s eyes. Colour drains away from Sue. Blonde from her hair, the pink from her lips, blue from her jacket slip and slide down her shoulders, her arms, trickle across her feet and land in a pool on the floor. She stares at Sue’s monochrome silhouette. Her mouth is dry; her heart races.

  ‘Cordelia.’

  From a distance she hears Sue’s voice: ‘Cordelia. You’re all right. I’m here.’

  She sees Sue’s mouth moving and a line of words coming from it like a long string of bubble gum.

  ‘Cordelia, talk to me.’

  Cordelia begins to count. One, two, three … four, five … the colour starts to return to Sue’s face … six, seven, eight … her jacket becomes a faint shade of blue … nine, ten, eleven … Cordelia can’t feel her heart thudding any more. She smiles uncertainly at Sue.<
br />
  ‘Was it one of those episodes you’ve described to me?’

  ‘Yes, but that’s the first for ages.’

  ‘Tell me again what happens.’

  ‘The colour goes from everything and I can’t hear what people are saying, although I can see them talking.’

  ‘And how do you feel when it happens?’

  ‘It’s as if I’m not really here, a sort of semi-consciousness.’

  ‘Do you feel scared?’

  ‘When it first happened I did, but now it’s as if I switch off.’

  ‘I think that’s exactly what you’re doing,’ Sue says.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Sue glances down at the notepad on her lap. ‘It happened when I asked you why you hadn’t contacted your mother about her email. I think you felt under pressure. Am I right?’

  Cordelia nods.

  ‘It seems to be a form of opting out, a way of removing yourself from difficult situations, so that you don’t have to tackle them.’

  The disturbance to Cordelia’s vision starts up; black spots begin to weave in front of her. This time she blinks rapidly to clear them away, and deliberately stretches out her fingers and relaxes her hands.

  She sees Sue smiling at her. ‘Well done. You didn’t give into it.’

  ‘I realised I didn’t have to.’

  ‘Good. Now what are you going to do about this email?’

  ‘I can’t keep avoiding it, can I?’

  ‘I’d say that’s been one of the problems.’

  ‘What do you think I should do?’

  ‘It’s not what I think.’

  ‘I know. I’ll tell my mother I don’t mind her asking if I’ll visit my father, but I won’t be blackmailed.’

  ‘And what about going to the hospital?’

  ‘I’ll say I will see him.’

  Anna’s standing on a low stepladder in the newly refurbished space at the back of the shop. She’s struggling with a painting in a heavy gilt-edged frame, when Cordelia arrives with her portraits. Savannah has come to help carry them and they lean them against a wall at the far end.

  ‘Can’t look round,’ Anna says. ‘This monster weighs a ton.’

  ‘Here, let me help.’ Cordelia takes the weight at one of the corners. ‘Grab hold of the other side, Savvy.’

  Anna manoeuvres the picture into place. She steps down from the ladder. ‘Let’s see what you’ve brought, Cordelia. I’ve saved a couple of good spaces for you.’

  Cordelia’s on tenterhooks. Suppose Anna doesn’t like her work? She unwraps the first painting. ‘This one’s Savannah.’ She moves to the next one. ‘This is my sister Esme, and … ’ she takes the cover off the final one, ‘my brother, Jake.’

  ‘Right. Let’s have a look.’

  All three portraits are head and shoulders: Savannah’s is full face; Esme’s hands are raised above her head, playing with her hair, the paint layered thickly to convey its curl and bounce; Jake’s face is tilted down and sideways, emphasising the strong contours of his brow and nose which Cordelia has reinforced by highlighting one side of his face.

  Anna is silent. Cordelia feels Savannah’s hand slip into hers and clings on to it.

  ‘They’ve definitely got something,’ Anna says finally.

  ‘But?’ Cordelia tries to keep her disappointment in check. ‘Give me the bad news.’

  Anna moves closer to the portraits and then stands back. ‘I’ve only met your brother and sister once, but you’ve captured something of their personality. I like the strength in Jake’s face and that strange mixture in Esme’s, uncertain, but up for a laugh.’

  ‘And Savvy?’

  ‘Shit, Mum, I still can’t believe that’s supposed to be me!’

  ‘Not now, Savvy. What do you think, Anna?’

  Anna shakes her head. ‘I’m afraid that’s my least favourite. Sorry, Savannah.’

  Savannah shrugs. ‘It doesn’t look anything like me anyway.’

  ‘I know that’s not what you want to hear, Cordelia.’

  ‘It’s okay.’ Cordelia can hear the whiney tone that Savannah has when she can’t get her own way in her voice.

  ‘Do you know what I think?’ Anna asks.

  ‘You just told me, didn’t you?’

  ‘Come on.’ Anna puts her arm round Cordelia and gives her a hug. ‘You want my honest opinion, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course, but I want your opinion to be that they’re brilliant.’

  Anna laughs. ‘You have got talent. I love the way you create texture and your use of colour is great, but you’re playing safe. You need to be bolder; you need to experiment.’

  ‘The oils were an experiment for me.’

  ‘And they’re good, but you’re paddling in the shallows. I’d like to see you play around with different media, try out different techniques.’

  ‘I don’t know how to.’

  ‘I think you ought to go to art college.’

  Cordelia stares rigidly out of the train window, her reflection merging with the fields and neat suburbs racing past. What on earth possessed her to agree to this? It seemed a good idea when she was sitting in the counsellor’s room. ‘I’ll see him,’ she told Sue and the very words made her feel strong. She would confront her father, and confront the past. Would finally be free. Excitement and apprehension somersaulted inside her, that same mixture of feelings that the first brushstroke on a canvas gave her.

  The momentum of the train alters. The high rise flats and office blocks of west London appear. How will she feel when she first sees him? What will he look like? Vanessa says how ill he’s been, and he’s in his seventies now, but her mind sees only dancing eyes and that big smile.

  Vanessa and Esme are already at the wine bar. It’s busy, and Cordelia has to scan the room several times before she sees them, at a table tucked away in the corner. They’re talking, heads close. Esme is holding a sheet of paper and Vanessa bends forward, as if to see it better. Esme laughs.

  Cordelia recoils at the image. It’s another moment. Another place. Esme is holding a sheet of paper: a letter. And she’s laughing, mouth wide, head back. Laughing, as she is now. Except it’s not the same. It’s not Vanessa beside her, but Savvy. They’re sitting cross-legged on Savvy’s bed, and as she steps into the room, Cordelia sees the pile of letters spread out between them on the duvet. The duvet cover is pink, with little white flowers, the one she bought for Savvy’s first grown-up bed.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Cordelia remembers the force of her shout. Remembers Esme and Savvy looking up, mouths caught mid-laugh.

  Esme unfolds her legs and stands up. Sheets of paper fall to the floor.

  Cordelia strides across the room and snatches one up. The page is covered with tiny writing, line after line of words squeezed from compressed letters: I miss you so much … I love you best … please come back or I’ll die … She doesn’t need to read any more to recognise the letters she wrote to her father after Andrew died. She wrote to him for months. Letters never sent. Letters never read. Until now, and her sister laughing at them, with Savannah.

  A fire ignites in her head. Flames spiral and pulse through her brain. ‘You witch! You evil, prying witch!’ She pushes Esme, fingers jabbing into her chest. Esme’s breastbone is hard, solid.

  Esme loses her balance, staggers backwards on to the bed, and her head bangs against the wall. For a second, the thud stops Cordelia, but then she hears Savannah’s voice: ‘Are you all right, Auntie Esme?’

  ‘Get out of here, Savvy.’

  ‘But Mum – ‘

  ‘I said – get out!’

  Cordelia feels the air round her agitate, as Savannah pushes past her and slams the door.

  She leans over the bed, and yanks at Esme’s shirt, pulling her towards her. ‘Those letters are private. How dare you read them? How dare you show them to my daughter.’ She hisses the words in Esme’s face.

  Esme brings her
arms up and tries to push Cordelia away. ‘Get off! You’re hurting me.’

  Cordelia grips the material tighter. ‘Those letters belong to me. They’re my thoughts, my feelings.’

  ‘For God’s sake, Cordelia. You wrote them when you were sixteen. What’s the harm?’

  ‘There are things in there I wouldn’t tell a soul. Let alone have you and Savannah pawing them.’

  ‘You didn’t send the stupid letters. You don’t feel like that now. What’s all the fuss about?’

  Cordelia can feel Esme’s hot breath on her face. Her skin crawls as if it’s alive with bugs. ‘You were laughing at me. With my daughter.’

  ‘If they’re so precious, you should have had them locked in a bank vault.’ Esme grabs Cordelia’s wrists and pulls her down on to the bed.

  Perspiration pricks under Cordelia’s arms and trickles down her back. There’s a pain in her chest where she can’t seem to get enough oxygen. Esme forces her on to her back, and kneels over her, pinning her hands either side of her head.

  ‘Listen.’ Esme lowers her face until it’s inches from Cordelia’s. ‘All this fuss. Those letters are adolescent rubbish.’

  Cordelia takes a deep breath. She swills saliva round her mouth. It bubbles on her tongue. She purses her lips and spits into Esme’s face.

  Esme looks up from her conversation with Vanessa and waves. Too late now to walk out.

  Cordelia crosses to their table, placing one foot carefully in front of the other. One, two three … four, five, six … She will get through this.

  Vanessa envelops her in a hug.

  ‘Hi.’ Cordelia’s pleased to hear her voice is steady. ‘Hope you haven’t been waiting long.’